


till human voices wake us (and we drown)

by majesdane



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Queen of Hearts. It's her favorite card.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	till human voices wake us (and we drown)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 [PLL Femslash Ficathon](http://ultimatums.livejournal.com/105914.html?thread=604090#t604090).

Because if you hate someone, you must still care, right? You have to care a little bit; otherwise you would just ignore them and forget they even lived.  
\--  _Goth Girl Rising_ , Barry Lyga  
  
  
She runs her thumb along the card's edge, presses her index finger against it, feels the tiny prick of pain from the little wound there -- courtesy of the sharp point of Hanna's forgotten tweezers. The doctors and nurses hadn't even noticed the cut; she'd licked away the blood before they'd come in, the faint taste of copper on her tongue.  
  
The Queen of Hearts. It's her favorite card. The French call it  _Judith_ , after the biblical figure. Judith, who with her hand maiden, infiltrated the camp of the enemy. Charmed her way in and struck when the time was right, loping off the leader's head with a single swing. Returned home a hero.   
  
There's a little tear on the edge of the card; she can feel the jagged edge of it, just beginning to split the card in two. She has half a mind to just finish the job now. Off with her head.  
  
She lies back in bed, on top of the covers. The late summer nights are still too hot; the sheets stick to her skin and she wakes up feeling sweaty and disoriented. If she were at home right now --  
  
But she doesn't think about that. Not anymore.  
  
When she sleeps, she dreams. And when she dreams, it's always of Spencer. Spencer, awkward and dorky and  _so goddamn pushy_ , shoving her opinions and ideas and attitude in everyone's faces like the election buttons she hands out in the cafeteria at lunch. Like anyone but her even  _cares_  about something like that.   
  
Spencer in her field hockey jersey on the first home game of the new season, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, wearing a smug smile --  _I'm Spencer Hastings, and I'm the best!_  -- not noticing that without Alison around, she's even less relevant than she used to be. Mona watches her from her locker, watches the swish of her skirt around her thighs, the way her ponytail bounces high on her head.  
  
Oh, Spencer. So desperate to be important. Wanting everything she can't have -- and taking, taking, taking as soon as the moment is right. Mona hates her. It bubbles up inside her, threatening to boil over. She grips the edge of her locker, feels the dull edge of the cool metal door press into her palm. She hates her so much she can hardly stand it.  
  
But she loves her, too. Just a little. In the way she loves the Queen of Hearts, the way she loves the story of Judith. The way she loved Alison, once, before she ended up six feet under, choking on dirt, all of her charms and insults and secrets not enough to save her.   
  
This is what she wants: to wrap her fingers around Spencer's neck and feel the stuttered, panicked breaths against her cheek. She'll feel Spencer's pulse rush under her hands and it will be too much; she'll kiss those pretty pink lips of hers until neither of them can breathe.  
  
She dreams of a hundred Spencers, then a thousand more. Each one is just a little bit different. There are so many sides to her. Mona would like to cut Spencer open, just to see her insides. She can already feel the warm wetness of blood on her hands; halfway between sleeping and waking, she wipes her hands on her thin gown, trying to get them clean.  
  
Maybe it's the drugs, the reason for these dreams. The reason why she feels the way she does.  
  
(The  _things_  these drugs can do to someone -- )  
  
Or maybe not.  
  
The way Spencer had looked at her, when she'd made the offer --  _you had to earn it, the right to be a part of it_  -- her expression a mixture of fear and disbelief and curiosity and accomplishment. For all of Spencer's posturing, she really was no better than any of them -- not Mona, not Alison. And in that fraction of a moment, Mona could see Spencer weighing her options. As if  _maybe_  --  
  
There is a little part of her, deep down, that wishes things had worked out differently.   
  
Oh, the things they could have done. Her and Spencer and --  
  
She remembers  _her_. Standing in the doorway of her room in that red, red coat. The color of fresh blood.  _It's a shame about Spencer_ , she says, sounding bored. Her heels click against the tile floor as she moves to towards the window, gazing out at the garden in the back. There's an expression on her face that Mona can't quite read.   
  
 _I knew she wouldn't turn on them_ , Mona sighs, brushing her hair to one side with a sweep of her hand.  _So typical._  
  
The girl in the red coat smiles. It's a wolfish, dangerous smile. It makes Mona shiver and feel warm all over, all at once.  _Well, we've got something much better anyway, don't we?_  
  
Mona closes her eyes and smiles, thinks of Spencer outside in the school courtyard by the cafeteria, threading her and Toby's fingers together, standing up on tiptoe and leaning in for a kiss. She can still feel that little spark of jealousy, origin unknown, as sharp and new as the day it happened.   
  
Oh, yes.  
  
They do.


End file.
